


The Roomba Chronicles

by grogu-pascal (venusx)



Series: Cult AU [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Bratty Reader, Degradation, Din Djain is Not Nice, F/M, Implied Age Gap, Manipulation, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sexual Frustration, Short Story, Two-Part One-Shot, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere Din Djarin, face fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venusx/pseuds/grogu-pascal
Summary: Your voice begins to quiet in Din’s head. He isn't a social man, having been raised only to speak when necessary, but he tries for you: offering nods when you rant and half-answering your many questions, but lately he's been having trouble even listening.To make matters worse, during this excited tirade of yours, a button on your tunic has unlatched and his mind becomes putty at the thought of one of your breasts escaping from the thin fabric, already clung too tight to your sweaty frame and growing tighter and tighter as you move about animatedly.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Series: Cult AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029819
Comments: 15
Kudos: 178





	1. The Roomba

Going to market with Din is a bit of a treat. The two of you rarely travel together, despite being cooped up in a ship together for months on end. You usually stay behind on hunts, watching the child or cleaning up shop while he works. So when he suggested that you come into town with him earlier today, it meant the world to you.

He's less thrilled. Almost immediately, the two of you are stopped by a shopkeeper going on and on about some new droid. Din tries to brush past him, head for the fruits the two of you came for, but you've insisted on listening to the whole spiel. And now, you're regurgitating it for him.

“The floors take hours to scrub Din,” you bemoan, eyes big, round, and focused on the length of his visor, "but with this droid—"

 _"The_ _Roomba,”_ the shopkeeper interrupts.

“—with this little Roomba,” you continue, “you set him and he cleans by himself!” You catch your lip in your teeth and step closer to him. “I could work on something else while it cleaned and that way, dinner would be ready by the time you—"

Your voice begins to quiet in Din’s head. He isn't a social man, having been raised only to speak when necessary, but he tries for you: offering nods when you rant and half-answering your many questions, but lately he's been having trouble even _listening._ To make matters worse, during this excited tirade of yours, a button on your tunic has unlatched and his mind has loosened into putty at the thought of one of your breasts escaping from the thin fabric, already clung too tight to your sweaty frame and growing tighter and tighter as you move about animatedly.

He knows what you're playing at. Your eye contact is heavier than usual and the way your tongue is running across your lips is much too slow to be unintentional. He's logged every detail: the way your manicured nails drag against your bare collarbone; how you fiddle with the hem of your too short dress.

In all this time, he hasn't mentioned how much your disguised attempts at seducing him bother him, how he'd give you whatever you wanted if you just asked, how you don't have to lure his cock into hardening to get what you want. Annoyance crawls up his neck as he watches your lips, entranced. Even with the knowledge that he's being toyed with, he can't shake his infatuation. He briefly considers the price of the Roomba. He has enough credits to buy it for you, but what would that teach you? That if you make a man squirm long enough, you get what you want? That if you make a man think about bending you over on the floor of his—

“ **Are you even _listening_ to me, old man?**” You interrupt his thoughts, grabbing at his hands and gazing into his visor. You can't see the way his resolve wears away as you entangle your fingers in his, peering up at him through your lashes. He contemplates running the rough of his fingers across the soft of your lip, all pouty and pink. Testing the resistance of your tongue against the leathered pads of his gloves. Grabbing a fistful of your hair right here in the middle of the market, forcing you down to your knees and having you beg. Mostly though, in the most depraved corner of his mind, he wants to bend you over the shopkeeper's stand and show you how teases get treated.

But he does none of those things, simply turning away from your manipulations, back in the direction of the Crest. “Come,” he says. “We’re leaving.” And the two of you leave, not making it even 10 steps from the booth until your mouth carries on and on about his neglect for you. How selfish he is. Never thinking of you. How the man at the saloon earlier would've gotten it for you.

He tenses and stops walking at that one, and you nearly regret it.

You two don't exactly have a _thing._ In fact, the mandalorian has never said more than 50 words to you in the time you've known each other. You know your tongue is testy. Feisty even. But you're frustrated with him for how few and far between his affections are.

 _Yes_ , you love flittering about the Crest, and homemaking. But Din never seems to notice your attempts at pleasing him. The tension between you two has become scheduled: after a long day, Din will return to the ship sweaty, sore and sometimes covered in someone else's blood and just...walk straight past you as you clean up whatever mess Grogu has managed to create that day.

He doesn't notice the hours you spend teaching the child. Doesn't notice the way you cook each meal, waking up early everyday to buy groceries from the market of whatever planet he's dragged you to. Doesn't notice how you spent weeks polishing away decades of accumulated rust on the ship, or how you manage laundry in the cramped 'fresher. Doesn't notice the way you chase the child away from making messes.

It hurts in a way that makes your heart sigh that Din only sees you for a few hours of the day, and even within those hours, hardly ever notices you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, leave kudos! If something gave you thots™ leave a comment!


	2. The Confrontation

Not much has changed a week later, still on Tatooine, still semi-ignoring one another. The lack of attention is gnawing at you. A tear threatens to spill past your eye as you sanitize the controls of the ship absentmindedly. 

This built-up emotion is why it stung so badly when he refused to make things easier for you at the market earlier that week. Why couldn't he have just bought the stupid fucking robot? Sure you were a brat about it, but you were just fed up. You hadn’t meant any of the things you said on your walk home that day. Hadn’t meant to call him a metal ball of boredom or insult the Crest. Hadn't meant to bring up the dick at the bar whose arm he had broken after the man dared to grab a handful of your ass. But you wanted a reaction. Ever stoic and seemingly unfeeling, he refused to give you one. And that made your bones feel like fire.

Since then, you hadn’t bothered greeting him when he came in the ship. Hadn’t bothered scrubbing away his foot prints as he walked over your still-wet, freshly cleaned floors. Hadn’t bothered buying his favorite fruits from the market. You’re were determined to be as unfeeling as him. Which is why it bothered you so much that your mind still etched images of him taking you against the control deck behind your closed eyes when you touched yourself in the 'fresher.

All of these built up thoughts, unspoken and amplifying in the both of you, were why earlier, when he walked over you freshly cleaned floors, you rose to your feet, a woman filled with fire, and threatened through grit teeth, “are you fucking kidding me?”

* * *

The Mandalorian stops walking at your words, the sound of his footsteps stilling in the air as he turns his head to the side, wondering if he's heard you correctly.

“Yes. You.” You reply, fed up and furious. “You walk around this ship, undoing all of the things I have spent all day making nice for you.” You stalk closer to him, finger pointed and voice raising. “You ignore the work I do around here. You _ignore_ me.” You finish, chest heaving.

You look at him with angry eyes, searching his visor for an expression. “Say something." You demand.

He does not. _What's gotten into you, he wonders._ He steps into the dim light to get a better look at you. You are usually bratty, voice too pointed for his liking, requests too brazen, but never this... bold. Confusion muddles his thoughts, hands growing warm and restless at his sides. 

"Say _._ Something," you spit. You pause, considering whether the situation warrants it, and you let your tongue fire vitriol anyway, " ** _Din_**.” His name tastes like sacrilege on your tongue, but you don't care now. You want to wear him down like he has worn you. Want to poke and prod at him like his silence has poked and prodded at you. 

It works. He moves towards you quickly at the use of his name, placing the box he had been holding down on the table beside him. You merely blink and he's two feet closer to you. Your misplaced desire for attention has morphed into something that feels almost like fear. Something gnaws at you, tries to urge an apology from your lips. But you are too stubborn for regret, and even if you weren't, it's too late. You raise your head defiantly but your body rejects your bluff, eyes widening as his hand rises towards you. Your legs fumble backwards as he closes the gap between you, but he’s too quick.

Your jaw is molded by his bare hand as his eyes pierce into you through his helmet. “Ignore you?” His voice crackles through the modulator, staticky and breathless. You _hear_ his clenched jaw as he speaks to you like this. Words going un-minced. Concerns too detailed. Your stomach bubbles with hurt as he lashes out, releasing every nasty thing he's been thinking of you.

Din watches as you wince in his hold, eyes shutting tightly, face turned away. He would stop if he could. The tongue lashing he's giving you should feel therapeutic. But instead, frustration continues to build in him. “How would you prefer I react?” Your eyes narrow as you open your mouth to speak, but he tightens his grip on your jaw. “No,” his voice darkens. “No interrupting while I talk.”

“I’ve put up with your comments. Have you considered how I feel about this? I'm out there hunting so that you and the kid can be on this ship at all," his voice shakes with intensity, anger boiling "and I come home to what? You pissed off about _dirt_ on the floor?” His imposing form measures closer to you as he steps forward, pinning your back against the cool metal of the ship with his knee. You don't speak, but neither does he for a moment, forcing you to come to terms with your...reaction.

This should not be making you squirm. The utter depravity of it all: the sting his words hold, the grip he has on your jaw, the aggression in his posture, all of it, is shooting arousal down to your bones. Sharp breaths filter through the modulator of his helmet, breaking the silence. You shift in his grip as much as you can and feel the cool of your cotton underwear as it brushes against the slick of your pussy. Shiny beskar flittered with specs of blood reflect your image, wide-eyed and desperate. _Has he always smelled so good? You wonder._ The scent of birch dancing on whisky intoxicates you. You want to pull him closer. Your knees feel like they could give out any second, and maybe they would if he wasn't holding you still with his hand.

Perhaps this is the closest the two of you have ever been. Perhaps these are the most words he has ever spoken to you. 

“Ignoring you?” he releases your jaw and turns away from you pacing. You slide down to the floor in response, legs parted, panting as you gather your breath. "I’m being respectful. You prance around this fucking ship half-dressed in front of me and I turn my head. I go to my cot and you follow me.” His pace rounds back towards you, and you rub your legs together, aching for friction. His helmet lowers down to your face and you can _feel_ his eyes burning. Shame wracks your body as you whimper aloud. "D-din, I'm sorry," you mumble, half-drunk on attention, half-scared of the consequence ahead. You two were familiar enough and yet, you could never predict him. Sometimes you'd piss him off on purpose, hoping to rile him into action, and he would just sit there. Other times you would simply be feeding Grogu, or scrubbing a stain from the floor, and he would rise from his seat and storm off to the refresher. All you can do is feign apology and wait, now. Maybe you've finally pushed him too far. Maybe he's about to knock the shit out of you. Maybe you'd deserve it. You feel guilty that the idea makes your clit throb.

“You think I don't I know what you want?” he asks. His hand frantically grips at your mound. The cheap, flimsy fabric of your tunic gives way to the wetness lining your panties. “Of course I know. But you want to take it from me. Wear me out, huh?” he says. You nod without thinking. This isn't really something you should be confirming, true or not. You'd agree to anything, though, if it meant he'd hold his hand there long enough for you to hump your way to orgasm. Din releases your cunt and hurries his hands to relinquish his aching cock from his trousers.

You press against the wall in anticipation, eyes lidded with arousal. Your cunt contracts at the sight of him: thick and brown, tip wet with slick. You escape your seated position to all fours, moving swiftly to shove his cock down your throat. "No," he says pushing the flesh of your face, sending you back onto your knees, "you aren't calling shots." Din flips the switch to his side and kills the lights. "But--" you begin, worried that he might just leave you like this. You hear the rustle of clothes before a _hiss_ echoes through the ship. Something sends a vibration through the floor with a dull _thunk_ and before you can think twice about it, your hair is being yanked taught, and the weight of his cock is resonating across your cheek with a _smack_. Your mouth opens, hoping to catch him between your lips. Longing radiates through you and you are whining like a hurt bitch. For a few more seconds, you chase his cock in the darkness, tongue out and willing, spit dripping. Suddenly, you feel his cockhead press against your lips. You loosen your jaw to allow him depth. Pain sears through the muscle there, but you keep yourself still. His taste is addictive, and you flatten your tongue out for more, more, more.

Din takes, takes, takes in response, forcing himself down into the wetness of your mouth, feeling himself nudge against the ridges of your throat. Once he's bottomed out, he leans down and taunts, "is this what you wanted? To taste me?"

Your eyes widen in the dark, searching upwards. His voice is crisp, the heat of his breath pillowing towards your ear. _Fuck, you think, no helmet._ You cunt is aching now, and you know that the sooner you can get him slick, the sooner you can get him into you. You moan on him as he paces himself down your throat. You're trying to remind yourself to breathe, but with a sense missing, you are grappling at sanity. You could work a cock in your mouth no problem, even at the speed Din was fucking into it at, but it was much harder to do without sight. A particularly hard thrust sends you backwards and you steady yourself on him, gripping your hands against his thighs. The hairs of his thighs tickle your palms and a giggle rises in your throat.

You immediately gag the feeling away. The reaction stutters your breathing and you inhale sharply through your mouth, gagging again. Spit drips down your chin onto the existing puddle on your floor, spreading by virtue of your knees. You slip forward because of it, Din's cock falling further down your throat. Through the whole ordeal, he continues fucking into your throat, mumbling curses and groaning. You rip backwards, ejecting his length from your throat and sputter coughs, choking back the bitter taste of what might very well be some stomach acid.

Lips parted and wet, you grab at his cock in the darkness and take his dick in your mouth again. "F-fucking slut," he grunts, voice breathless and airy. The filth of it alls ends a shockwave to your core. _You are a fucking slut, and you're his fucking slut, and if what it takes to impress him is the abuse of your throat, then so be it._ A long groan vibrates from his base to his tip as you respond, voice garbled, head nodding. His pace quickens, pummeling down your throat faster than before, and long lines of spit spill out from you as your cheeks hollow. " _Agh,"_ he moans, bottoming out, balls against your chin. "Y-you fucking slut," he says again. You look spent, face coated with tears, tunic soaked with saliva. "Yes," you mumble over his cock. When he cut the lights earlier, he thanked the stars for his night vision, but now it's all too much: you look so pretty underneath him like this and so willing. It sends him flying over the edge, orgasm spending down your throat as you protest, bubbles of spit peeking out of your nostrils, nails digging scratches into his thighs. But he doesn't budge, holding you in place by the hair, gaze fuzzy and warm and loving. 

When he finishes, he gently unlodges himself from you. You are beyond tired, your own orgasm long forgotten by you and it's a feat for your jaw to stretch enough to permit him out. Your head hurts a little but _its okay, you think to yourself_. You are beaming with pride, all loopy and giggle-y and stupid. After your breath is gathered, you manage a quiet "thank you," and an even quieter, "sorry." The mandalorian almost dismisses it, tells you how you don't have anything to be sorry for, but reconsiders when he realizes how few of them he gets anyways. He ought to revel in the sound of that. 

Din drops to his knees beside you. The expanse of his palm rests against your cheek, fingers dancing along your nape. "You okay?" he asks, voice gruff. He searches your eyes for discontent and finds nothing but happiness. You nod, gazing into darkness. "My throat is scratchy. Hurts a little to talk." His fingers halt their movement at your words. "'S okay," you offer, reaching your hands up to where you estimate his cheek to be. You land of the prickle of stubble, and grin. "I liked it, really."

"Need anything?"

"Anything?" you ask, peppering kisses along his jawline. He pauses, before pressing a kiss to your lips. "Anything."

You stifle a laugh, mischief lighting up your smile. "A Roomba," you say, laugh bellowing from your chest. It hurts terribly to do so, between the scratch in your throat and the headache brewing in your temple, but you can't stop.

Din scoffs at you, a smirk pulling at his cheek. Of course you'd laugh at your own joke. He picks you up from the floor and begins to make his way to his quarters. "That box earlier?" he starts, stepping over his discarded armor. You shift in his arms, already teetering on bedtime. He sets you down gently on the bed, brushing your hair behind your ear. "I got it for you after all. Felt bad."

"What a simp," you manage weakly. You aren't sure if you've already begun dreaming when you hear a chortle as you drift off. 

Perhaps he will regret this all tomorrow. Perhaps he won't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, leave a kudos if you liked it, leave a comment if this gave you thots™️ 
> 
> Send requests to my tumblr @grogu-pascal.
> 
> Edit 01/10: No chapter 3 me thinks. This short story is over. WIll spin off with a few oneshots featuring our bratty reader


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